Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“That’s not why I’m here,” I said.

“Oh,” Duncomb said, almost looking disappointed. “What’s this about, then?”

“Adam Chalmers,” I said.

“Chalmers? The writer?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Mr. Chalmers and his wife were killed last night when that screen came down at the drive-in.”

His mouth dropped. “Jesus Christ, you’re kidding.”

“No.”

Duncomb’s head went side to side. “I can’t believe that. Son of a bitch. When I heard about that, first thing I wondered was whether any Thackeray students were hurt or killed. Far as I know, none were. I heard a couple of kids were, but they weren’t students here. Not that that makes it any less tragic. But Christ Almighty, I never realized Adam... and Miriam... Good people. Nice people.” Another incredulous head shake. “Do you know anything about a service? Which funeral home they went to, anything like that?”

“I don’t. His daughter’s looking after that today. At least where Mr. Chalmers is concerned. I think Miriam Chalmers has a brother driving in from Rhode Island.”

“Goddamn,” Duncomb said. Then, recovering from the shock, he asked, “What’s your involvement? Why are you here talking to me?”

“I gather you and Adam — Mr. Chalmers — were friends.”

Duncomb didn’t speak right away. I sensed that he was sizing me up.

“On occasion,” he said.

“You were friends, then?”

“We knew each other a little, yeah.”

“Well enough that you know his wife’s name,” I said.

Another hesitation. “I knew the two of them. That’s right. Like I said, they were good people.”

“Did you and your wife socialize with Adam and Miriam?” I asked.

“Did I say I was married?”

“I just assumed,” I said. “Saw the band on your finger there.”

Duncomb glanced down at his own left hand. “Yeah, Liz and I were friends with them. Let me ask you something, Mr. Weaver.”

“Go ahead.”

“You a cop once?”

“Yeah.”

“I used to be with the Boston PD.”

“Well.”

“So I’ve been around long enough to know you’re working up to something, so why not just get the fuck to it?”

“I’m looking into circumstances possibly related to the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers.”

“Oh, well, circumstances . That’s clear enough. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

I moved my tongue around my teeth for a second or two. I’d allowed this to get away from me. “I thought you might be able to help because Mr. Chalmers was in contact with you quite often.” I paused. “That’s what his cell phone records show.”

Duncomb leaned back in his chair, his head up, like he was sniffing the air.

“Like I said, we were friends.” Another shake of the head. “God, I still can’t believe what’s happened.”

“How’d you know him?”

Duncomb cleared his throat. “He came out here to talk to some creative writing students. We got talking, and when he found out I had a law enforcement background, he asked if he could call me when he had questions about police work. And we got to be friends. Simple as that.”

“What was it he wanted help with lately?”

“Hmm?”

“When he last called you. What was he writing that he needed your expertise for?”

“Fingerprints,” Duncomb said without hesitation. “Whether you can get fingerprints off fabric. Different surfaces. That’s what we were talking about.”

“So he was working on a book.”

“Sure.”

“Because he had an e-mail from his — I guess it was his literary agent — saying that if he could get a publisher interested, he’d try to write another book, but it didn’t sound like he was currently working on anything.”

Duncomb moved his lips in and out. “Maybe he hadn’t told his agent he was running something around in his head.”

“Doesn’t that seem odd? That he’d be telling you before he’d tell his own agent?”

He forced a laugh. “How the hell would I know? The thing is, the fingerprints call might have been a while ago. Sometimes Adam just called to shoot the shit. We were friends . Did I mention that part?”

“When’s the last time you were out to see Adam and Miriam?”

A big shrug. “I don’t know. There was a dinner a while ago.”

“It’s quite a house,” I said.

“I guess,” he said.

“Did you ever look after the place when the Chalmerses were away? You being in security and all, if I were going away, I’d be glad to know someone like you. Who could check the house, make sure everything was okay.”

Duncomb eyed me curiously.

“What are you asking?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“There’s nothing simple about it. Just put it out there, Weaver. What do you want to know?”

I stood. “I have a message. From Adam’s daughter. She wants to know she doesn’t have anything to worry about. She wants to know that what was taken from the house isn’t going to be used to tarnish her father’s memory. She either wants it back or some assurance that it has been destroyed.”

Duncomb’s face didn’t move.

“Is that it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well, thanks for dropping by,” he said.

I was about to make the observation that since he didn’t want to know what was taken from the house, he already knew, but I was interrupted with a phone call.

I took out my cell, glanced at the number. It wasn’t one I recognized.

“Hello?”

“He’s going after Carl! I know it! This whole thing, acting nice, it was a trick! They’re going to get him!”

It was a woman, and she was beyond frantic. I couldn’t place the voice, and I had no idea who Carl was.

“Who’s this?” I said.

“Jesus, it’s Sam ! You gave me your card! They slashed my tires! The one you got in the eyes? With soap? Ed? He’s going to grab Carl! I know it.”

“How was your lunch?” David Harwood asked Randall Finley when he found him walking through his water-bottling plant.

“Good, good lunch,” Finley said.

“Who were you meeting again? Frank Mancini?”

“Yup. Good guy. Good businessman. So did you get the thing set up at the bank?”

“I did. You can now make a donation to the Constellation Drive-in disaster fund to help people and their families affected by the tragedy.”

“And you called it the Randall Finley Relief Fund?”

Harwood thought that he’d like nothing more than to be relieved of Randall Finley. “No, I did not call it that. I called it the May 17 Fund. Pegged it to the day it happened. People around here will remember that date for a long time. It’ll resonate.”

Finley couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face. “I suppose that’s okay.”

“It would have looked self-serving to put your name on it. But people will know. You can remind them when you give talks. Tell people to throw a few bucks at the account you set up.”

“Sure, I hear what you’re saying.”

“You look like I took away your favorite toy.”

“No, you’re right.” He smiled and clapped a hand on Harwood’s shoulder. “That’s why I picked you, David. You’ve got smarts. You know how to rein me in. You know how to keep me from making an even bigger asshole of myself.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” David said.

Finley laughed. “We need to talk about when I should officially announce. I have to tell you, I feel ready. The election’s still more than five months off, but you need time to build momentum. You know what I’m saying?”